When Dawn Breaks
by BMRH
Summary: "When he was just about to round the corner of the living room doorway, that's when I first saw it..." When John finds out what happened to Sherlock in Serbia, it tears up past scars for both of them. A season 3 Hurt & Comfort fic in every sense of the word. Set between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three. Told in three parts.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S FIRST NOTE**  
When I finally write a story that I'm pleased with, they always end up being a mile long! I have therefore split this one shot into three parts with one part being released each week. Like I wrote in the description, this is a Hurt & Comfort fic in every sense of the word. I'm writing from John's perspective again because it's just so interesting to explore this almost existential discussion from his point of view. I have also gotten very good feedback about the way I write "my" John so of course I want to continue on the same track. Not written as a Johnlock fic but of course you can read it as you like. Rated T for some dark themes and in later chapters, some bad language.

 _Dedicated to my two beta readers and fellow fangirls. I don't know what I would do without you!_

* * *

 _ **WHEN DAWN BREAKS**_

 **PART ONE...**

"Oh, for God's sake!"

It was when I found myself staring wide awake into the ceiling for the fourth time that night that I really lost patience with myself. I rolled my eyes and turned sideways in a brisk and frustrated manner, wondering if I finally would except that I wouldn't get anymore sleep tonight.

Periods of insomnia weren't really new to me. I had always been a light sleeper. The fact that I also was a naturally brooding person didn't make it better. It had kept me awake many times, hour after hour in the darkness, and then when I finally had fallen asleep, the slightest sound usually woke me up again. This was probably a legacy from my years in the military. Back then, if you weren't careful and alert all the time, every moment could be your last.

My experiences from the battlefields were of course another reason why it wasn't always too pleasant to enter dreamland. After I got shot in Afghanistan I was haunted every single night by my comrades screaming my name, begging me to help them with their wounds. Every night I woke up dropping with sweat and a racing heart. Every time I couldn't help them because I was a bloody _crippling_ in an apartment on west side London...  
Time didn't make it better, only worse. I was close to giving up on sleep all together. All I wanted was to be there by their side in the centre of it all and nothing else here seemed important in comparison. Not even life itself.

The nightmares became much less frequent after I met Sherlock and moved into Baker Street. This was kind of ironic because I always seemed to get into serious trouble whenever I followed him on his strange and intensive investigations. Still, I never had a bad dream about any of our cases. During nights when we were without something to do and I finally had time to get some sleep, I actually slept really well. It was completely illogical in theory but it worked like my own personal kind of therapy, something that probably said more about me than anything else.

Then Sherlock committed suicide and the nightmares came back and worse than ever. The difference was that visions of my comrades dying around me were replaced with Sherlock lying dead on the pavement in a pool of blood, just like he had that grey morning. I always tried desperately to reach him, screaming that I must help him, that I must save him. Every time I was pulled farther and farther away the more I struggled and could only stare as life left his body. Worst of all was when I saw his wide open eyes. They were completely hollow without the slightest sparkle of life in them. Just unlike everything that he was, the person who I saw as the embodiment of life itself. That was usually when I was awoken by my own screams.

The thought of these horrible memories threw me briskly back into reality again. I sighed deeply and calmed myself with the fact that all this was a long time ago now. All those nightmares, even that morning outside St Barts hospital. So much had changed since then and instead of brooding more about the past, I kept listening to the soothing sound from downstairs that was the familiar sound of a single violin.

I was staying at Baker Street over the weekend. Mary's girlfriends had surprised her this morning for her hen party. I had been let in on the plans a week ago and without any plans of my own, I figured that I could seize the opportunity to spend some time with Sherlock. My work at the medical centre took a lot of my time but I tried to come here some few times a month at least. Sometimes it ended with me following him on cases, just like during old times. Most times it ended with him lying on the sofa, muttering quite unflattering deductions about the sergeants in the police force while I read the latest newspaper, trying to ignore him. Oh, and he said he wasn't bitter at Donovan and the others. Bullshit.

The tune from downstairs ended on a low pitched note and for a short moment all was silent. When the music once again flowed through the rooms, it was with a melody I hadn't heard in two and a half years. I actually froze for a moment at the sound of it. For me the composition would forever be associated with one of our most extraordinary cases which introduced us to a most extraordinary opponent. I called it _Irene's theme_. What he called it, I hadn't the faintest.

I won't deny that I was slightly surprised. After the case was finished and Adler was out of our lives, I had never heard him play it again. When Mrs Hudson, in all her unknowingly good will, had asked him to play it for Mary a month ago, he had become somewhat irritated. Now here he was playing it during one of his nightly sessions between his violin and his mind. I guessed that I would never understand what she truly meant to him. Maybe this was the only way which he could express those feelings that he couldn't really understand himself.

As time passed 3:00 AM I decided that all my upcoming attempts at sleeping already were doomed to fail. Instead, I climbed out of my bed and put on my dressing gown, put my phone in my pocket and then slowly walked down the stairs, taking every step as carefully as I possibly could to avoid disturbing my friend in his playing. I headed for the living room but then stopped in the doorway when the following picture was displayed in front of me:

The light rays of the very early morning sun broke through the window glass and filled the room with warmth and a shine that was coloured in both red, orange and yellow. My friend stood by the left window with his back against me. He wore his grey pyjamas together with his red dressing gown and by his neck he held his precious instrument. His right arm moved gracefully as he let the bow caress the violin strings which created the soothing sound that was the familiar tune, just as incredibly beautiful as it was dolefully haunting.

I leaned to the door frame and let my eyes consume the picture in front of me. The whole scene could have been fit to become a beautiful photograph or a painting by an old master. Instead, it was actually a scene from my reality. Just months ago, I had been more than sure that I would never again witness my friend playing on his violin. Apart from that, I would soon marry my fiancé Mary Morstan which, for some extraordinary and wonderful reason, really liked Sherlock and got along with him in a way that none of my former partners had done. He even seemed to enjoy her company most of the time. Every time I watched them talking and occasionally laughing together, I became even surer that she was the love of my life. Yes, in five months I would marry the woman I loved and I would do it with my best friend, the man that I had thought dead for two years, right beside me. I smiled and hoped that God wasn't done spooling me yet.

Sherlock finished the tune with a gorgeous last note and took the violin from his neck.

"I like that one." I said. "It's very beautiful."

Sherlock didn't seem to react the very least when he heard my voice, like he was already aware that I had been watching him for a while.

"Have you ever stopped for a moment to admire the sunrise in the morning, John?" he said after a moment of silence as he continued to stare out the window.

"Well, I took my time sometimes when I was in Afghanistan." I answered as I walked into the room. "When you don't know which day might be your last, you start to appreciate those everyday things a bit more."

"Mmm, on ne sait jamais. It is just as much a gift as it is a curse, don't you think? What would life be if we knew when it would end?"

He spoke calmly but with a feeling that I had rarely heard in his voice.

"Can't sleep either, huh?"

"Never intended to."

"You're on a case? Something I can do to help? You know I want to if I can."

I have to be honest and say that this was an understatement. I was absolutely desperate to help. The small medical centre was always quiet. The suburban apartment building were we lived was always calm. Too calm! Sometimes I actually thought I could understand how Sherlock felt on nights when he practiced his shooting skills against the wall in the living room (the recently wallpapered one since two months, much to Mrs Hudson's despair).

When all this appeared in my thoughts I felt at once very ungrateful. I really shouldn't say that my life with Mary was boring. I loved her more than anything and I would do anything for her. _She_ alone had gotten me through the past year. _She_ had been the only one who had truly understood me during this time. _She_ had finally helped me to move on after losing my closest friend in a way that I had been absolutely sure that it was forever a closed chapter. _She_ had been brave enough to take me on, a lonely and traumatised man, and save me from myself. Mary Morstan was my rock and my soulmate. For her it was worth being bored sometimes.

Sherlock snickered darkly in response to my question.

"Of course I do. And no, I don't have a case right now. Nothing of interest has come across."

His snicker suddenly turned into a cynical, almost crazy sounding chuckle. He buried his face between his fingers before ruffling his hair in clear frustration.

"Dear God, they all come here with their little everyday problems and think I will found them interesting. How utterly ridiculous. At least the development in the papers about the "Hitchcock murders" suggests that the investigation is getting to a halt."

He handled me his phone with notices and articles from both _The Telegraph_ and _The Guardian_ ready for me to read.

"Judging from these, Lestrade will most likely convince Gregson to ask for me in about five hours." Sherlock said while taking up his violin again. "Until then, why sleep when you can drift off to violin land where everything is sweet and in harmony and no boring clients bore me with their boring problems?"

He began to play, a ballad that he had written himself, and in just a short moment he seemed to have lost himself completely in the music again.

I shook my head slightly at him. Sherlock hated everything about the mundane routine that was everyday life, probably even more than me, and would do anything to get rid of his boredom. Still, he could play on his violin hour after hour in complete silence with his eyes closed the whole time. How that wall shooting, harpoon waving maniac could be in the same mind and body as that peaceful musician was a mystery complicated enough that I was sure that only he himself could be able to solve it.

"Tell me more about the case." I said.

Sherlock stopped playing immediately and turned around with a pleased smile on his face.

"Of course. I'm just going to have a shower first. Haven't washed off the smell from the treatment plant yet."

For once, I wasn't really feeling too eager to hear all the details of that particular case.

"Make yourself some breakfast if you want to." Sherlock continued. "I think there are some eggs in the fridge but I might have mistaken the eye balls for them."

He placed the violin in his armchair and began to walk out of the living room. Half way out he dropped his dressing gown and began to pull his T-shirt over his head. When he was just about to round the corner of the living room doorway, that's when I first saw it...

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S SECOND NOTE**  
What do you think John saw? Let me now in the comments and also tell me what you thought about the first chapter of this story. Follow & Favourite!


	2. Chapter 2

**AUTHOR'S THIRD NOTE**

Some days have passed and now it's finally time to post the second part of this story. Thank you everyone who have chosen to follow, favourite and commenting on the first part! It's the largest response I have ever gotten for any of my stories and I'm completely overwhelmed and so thankful! You are truly the best!

One small side note: I usually incorporate elements or memories of events from the actual episodes and my other stories in the new ones I write, just to create a coherent timeline. Check them out and see if you can find anything in them that I have referenced to here. I also try to sneak in some references to the original Conan Doyle novels and short stories, just like in the series. Have you found any so far?

Now, enjoy the next part and once again, thank you!

* * *

 **PART TWO…**  
It was only visible to me for about half a second and at first, I was not sure if it was just my imagination. On the other hand, if I had learned anything from Sherlock, it was to never rule anything out, however improbable it might seem. Even if I really had seen what I thought I had seen, the idea of it immediately made me feel sick to my stomach.

I must have lost myself in these thoughts for quite some time because I didn't notice when Sherlock came back from the shower or when he settled by his computer on the desk in the living room. I rose slowly from the sofa that I also had no memory of sitting down on and walked over to him. He had changed into his usual black trousers and an expensive new white shirt, something I had learned over time was a sign of that he was really excited about the new case that was soon coming into his hands. I stood frozen in my place, staring at him as he began to speak but I had no concentration what so ever on his Words.

"So our killer, _she's_ actually fairly creative, killing men off in ways that female characters are killed in the movies of Alfred Hitchcock. Hah, it's quite obvious though that she begins to get too confident now but of course Gregson doesn't get..."

"What are those scars on your back?"

The tone in my voice was deadly serious. Even Sherlock seemed to notice this sudden change from earlier. He stopped in his account even though his eyes never left the computer.

"Hmm, so you noticed." he said indifferently. "I suppose I might have underestimated your skills of observation after all. You should use them more often."

I was used to my friend's nonchalant and sometimes rude answers but this time something snapped within me. I grew very angry very quickly, to the point of pounding my fist loudly into the desk. Sherlock turned to look at me with confused eyes.

"Take off your shirt!" I hissed.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Umm... John, I've read it's common to get cold feet before your wedding day but isn't this to go a bit too far?"

"Take off that bloody shirt!"

Sherlock fell quiet again and looked at me with a sharp, calculating gaze. He must have deduced what he could from my expression and then pondered his options, obviously figuring that it was no point in trying to avoid me. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply before he rose from the chair, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it slowly from his shoulders. I instantly went behind him to look. The sight that met my eyes was quite as I had expected and absolutely terrifying.

The _scars_ were most prominent on his upper back. To my trained eye every single one of them was as clear as if they were fresh. They were many and in different directions across his skin but all of them in the form of long thin lines. Some looked deeper than others. Deep to the point that the wound they were the result of might have required immediate stitches, stitches that obviously had been made some time later instead.

It took me no time to confirm my suspicions. I had seen those kinds of wounds many times back in Afghanistan on soldiers from all sides in the conflict. Always on men and women that were as much torn apart mentally as they were physically. The words that had been written in my high school dictionary appeared clearly in my head: 'The act of inflicting excruciating pain, as punishment or revenge, as a means of getting a confession or information, or for sheer cruelty'... _Torture_...

I tried to take a deep breath to calm myself but the following sigh came out just as shaky as I feared it would be. Instead of trying again, I turned hastily away from him and began pacing around the room while clenching my fists harder and harder. Sherlock put on his shirt again in silence but I could feel his gaze being fixed on me. He was studying my reaction.

"Four or five months ago, right?" I finally said in a strained voice.

Sherlock nodded once.

"Four months, right before I returned to London."

I closed my eyes and forced myself to draw another shaky breath.

"Who was it?"

"John, it's not important anym..."

"Who was it?!" I screamed loudly. "I want to know! Who was it?!"

In contrast to my face that must have burned with emotion, Sherlock's expression was completely blank. When he finally answered his voice was also empty of all emotion.

"I had found the last criminal activity with connection to Moriarty's network, a terrorist cell in eastern Serbia. I broke into their main storage building to find out just how much Moriarty had financed them. In the end, I decided to blow the whole storage up but I was exhausted and had been careless in covering my tracks. They discovered me and my attempt to escape was unsuccessful. I was captured, I got out and that's all you need to know."

 _All I need to know?!_ I turned away from him with a disgusted look on my face and began pacing again while I pulled my hands manically through my hair. I was so angry and frustrated that I didn't know what to do with myself. The most prominent feeling of all was guilt. It was the same guilty feeling that I had felt on the battlefield every time I couldn't protect or save a fellow comrade. The absolutely horrible feeling of inadequacy, that I could have done so much more.

"You're angry." Sherlock said simply. A loud cynical sounding laugh escaped my lips.

"Hah, yes, amazing deduction! You have once again outdone yourself! Yes, I am very angry."

"I don't understand. Why should you be angry? It wasn't you who got tortured in..."

"Don't!" I interrupted quickly. "Just…."

I didn't want to hear him say it. Couldn't _bear_ to hear him say it.

"I wasn't there!" I said loudly. "That's why! If I had been there, then maybe you... Well, maybe you wouldn't look like that."

I paused and wiped my face with my hands, all while Sherlock's gaze never left me.

"It's just... You."

I stopped and pointed at him.

"You shouldn't have done this alone."

"I wasn't alone." he answered calmly. "Mycroft kept track on my advances during the whole time."

"And what did Mycroft do that time, huh?! Not a single goddamn thing apparently while you ended up getting half ripped apart in bloody Serbia!"

"He did more than you think."

"Not enough!"

During this whole exclamation, Sherlock's face had continued to betray not the slightest emotion. He seemed just completely indifferent to what had happened to him and why I reacted the way I did. When he answered me with another blank look and even more silence, the frustration became way too massive for me. I groaned, rolled my eyes at him and fell down into my armchair. _You should have been there. Things could have been different. I should have been there_...

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first this time. It was obvious in his tone from the beginning that he was for once trying to choose his words with care.

"John... You have no possible reason to blame yourself for this. It was all beyond your control."

"Then who should I blame if not myself?" I said sighing while I stroke my forehead with the palm of my hand. "Tell me, could I have done anything different?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Different?"

"To make you trust me? What could I have done differently?"

"I've told you before." he answered. "It wasn't a question of trust or not. Only that your reaction needed to look authentic to trick Moriarty's snipers to believe that I was truly dead. It was the only way to..."

"So I was basically just another piece in your bloody game?" I hissed. In a second my feeling of guilt turned into uncontrollable rage and I became so angry that I instead began to laugh.

"Hah, of course! You're Sherlock Holmes and you'll do anything to win the game. Sorry, I should have realised."

"John, I know it was..."

"No, Sherlock, you don't!" I screamed furiously and pointed at him again. "You don't! That's your problem! You are so used to knowing everything, being the one that makes all the plans that you have no idea how it feels for us who don't know a thing!"

"It wasn't easy for me either!" Sherlock suddenly said in a louder voice. Even though this was the result I unconsciously had wanted and had tried to provoke out of him, I was still momentarily stunned by this sudden and large, to him at least, outburst of emotion. Instead of being stunned into silence though, it triggered me even more.

"Really, you think it was difficult for you?! Yeah, it must have been really hard choking up like that! Tell me, was even a thing of how you acted on that roof real or were it all just another play to the gallery? Because you know what? You really nailed it, Sherlock! You should have won an Oscar! Congratulations!"

I expected his answer to follow immediately. Quick and witty comebacks were kind of Sherlock's trademark and he was never late to use them in heated discussions with Scotland Yard. But instead of getting a long monologue about how absurd my argument was, only silence followed. It was uncomfortable from the very instant it appeared. I even had to look around to see if he was still in the room. He was, and still not because the person I saw wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He had the same height, the same clothes and the same hair but his posture seemed to have fallen and his features looked gloomy in a way that I had never seen them before. In his eyes was a look that could only be described as distant and hollow. No piercing gaze, no fire. Just something completely different. It was first then that I realised just how deeply my words actually had hurt him...

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S FOURTH NOTE**  
So... That was intense. It has truly been an emotional rollercoaster to write this chapter. I have always wondered if John knew about Serbia and how he would have reacted if he got to know and as you can see, this is the result of my speculations.

So what did you think about this chapter? Was John's reaction plausible and what do you think will happen next? Again, let me know in the comments. The next chapter will be up next week. Leave a review if you want to know the exact date. Until then, if you want to, take a look at my other _Sherlock_ stories. The ones that are mostly written in the same style as this one is _A Study In Waltz_ and _Engine Error_ (John's POV) but I do also really recommend _The morning the world collapsed_. Follow  & Favourite!


	3. Chapter 3

**AUTHOR'S FIFTH NOTE**

Hi, guys! We have now reached the last chapter. I know that some of you have asked me to continue with more chapters but I feel like the quality of the narrative would decline because it was always written as just a three part story. Quality over quantity in this case is crucial to me but I still have to apologise to you who had hoped for more chapters. I do also want to thank everyone who has chosen to follow, waited so patiently and given me so much feedback during this whole process. I'm right now working on a lot of fics at the same time but am quite far from concluding any of them because I also study for a master's degree and work part time on top on that. When I'm done with something I will post as soon as I can, I promise! Once again, thank you for all your feedback! Now, let's conclude this story…

* * *

 **PART THREE…**

Sherlock turned away from me when he saw that I had realised what had happened. At the same moment I quickly rose from my chair.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean..."

"Yes, you did." he answered sternly, staring blankly out of the window. "You meant every word."

I would have said something if it hadn't been true. Sadly, I couldn't say that it wasn't. I fell quiet and lowered my gaze.

"Let me explain yet again what feelings are, _Dr Watson_." he said harshly in a cold and cynical tone. "They are the crack in the lens, the grit in the microscope, the dust in my eyes that prevents me from observing the tiniest details that in the end means everything. All emotions are the enemy of the true cold reason which I value highest of all."

"Yeah, I know but..."

"That being said," Sherlock interrupted loudly before the tone in his voice suddenly softened. "... I know I'm not incapable of feeling, John. I choose not to, for the reasons I have already made clear. Believe me, I do know why because that morning... The way I... _felt_..." He spat at the word. "Besides that it could have compromised the whole plan, it was... painful and I never want to feel that way again. _Never..._ "

The silence that now entered the room felt completely different from all the others before. You could hear the sound of the city, an occasional car driving by or a horn in the distance but the silence in the room itself was like a haunting echo that said more than any words could have done. I lifted my head and looked at my friend. His eyes seemed locked on the street below us. With his hands in his pockets, he stood with his back strait but with his head hanging.

 _Painful_...  
It wasn't what I had expected but maybe what I had wanted out of him and still it wasn't and... Truly, I didn't know anymore. I think I needed a moment to process what he just had told me. It wasn't just an act. In that critical situation between truth and lies and life and death, Sherlock Holmes had actually lost emotional control. Even though it had fit his purpose, he had still lost the self-discipline that defined him. It was against everything that he believed in and he despised himself for it.

Just like that, the pieces fell into place. Maybe that's why he had acted like a complete dickhead, even by his standards, when he first had returned? To distance himself as far as possible from those feelings which he hated so much? Maybe a strategy to remain "sane", maybe to prove that he was still _Sherlock Holmes_? My best friend might be many things but in the end, even how unthinkable it seemed sometimes, he _wasn't_ a machine. I if anyone should have realised this long before I said the things I had done.

Leaving my pride behind me, I walked to his side by the window. My gaze also fell onto the familiar street below us, just as empty and cold in the early morning as I felt inside. Baker Street hadn't changed much in the last two years. The cars were still parked with a bit too much space in between them. Some of the apartment houses facades still needed a restauration. The one that didn't was the newly built one right across the street. That building had replaced the apartments that had been destroyed the morning when James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal the world had ever seen, had made his first move in the great and deadly game of wits against his only rival, master detective Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. It truly sounded like a narrative fit any of the great detective classics but in reality, the story was even more complex than this.

I stared back at my friend. I hadn't thought about it before but he did look older, more concerned, almost abstracted in a way. Just as intelligent but different from the eccentric young man with the face of a twelve year old that I first had met. These last two years _had_ changed him too, maybe more than I had cared to notice. Maybe tonight had been a glimpse of just how much? In the end, Sherlock Holmes wasn't a character in a detective novel or a blog post. He truly was so much _more_ than that.

I sighed deeply and closed my eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

His answer was quiet but calm. Two very simple words.

"Don't be."

They were enough.

No, I wasn't who I had been and neither was he. It could be for better. Also for worse. Time would have to tell that. As I met his gaze, at least I knew that he knew that I understood.

The silence was broken when my phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket.

"Hmm, Mary's already up." I declared after reading the text. "God knows what Janine has in store for them today."

"Janine?"

"The maid of honour. She's been organising the hen party. So many ideas but she works as an assistant so I guess she's used to organising things."

Sherlock frowned, as if searching in his mind where he had put away the information about Mary's friends. Suddenly his eyes brightened and his hands shoot up in an exciting gesture.

"Ah, right!"

A little bit _too_ excited. I raised my eyebrows.

"You have no idea who she is, don't you?"

His exciting expression disappeared immediately and was replaced with a dull and uninterested look. He shrugged his shoulders.

"No, I don't."

I rolled my eyes at him before continuing to read the latest text from my fiancée.

"Mary says that we should have a stag night."

I laughed at even the thought of how it sounded.

"Stag night?" Sherlock asked.

"Same thing as a hen party but for the groom." I answered, pointing at me. When getting another text from Mary, I turned my attention to my phone instead. Hah, they were going to dance ballet after lunch and then go shooting with some antique bow and arrow. Mary, who was insecure about throwing dart arrows at the local pub.

"So what do people do during this 'stag night' thing?" Sherlock asked me after a moment of silence even though I paid little attention to him.

"Well... You get out, drink, having a great time with your mates really."

"And this is a... wedding tradition?"

Something about the tone in his voice made me feel suspicious and I looked up from the screen. I could, partly to my surprise and mostly to my horror, read in Sherlock's eyes that he had already started to come up with a set of plans that was way out of everything that was familiar to him.

"Sherlock, you don't have to..."

"No, it's fine. If it's a wedding tradition, it should be included. I am the best man at this wedding and I want to do this the... right way."

I eyed him sceptically.

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you are _you_."

"And you made me your best man. What does that tell you about yourself?"

I raised my eyebrows at this but couldn't really say that he wasn't right. Maybe it did say something about me? I smiled and quite unexpectedly, I actually began to feel a bit excited about the whole thing.

"Okay. I'm in, but let's keep it small. Just you and I will be fine."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, sounds good to me."

"And we're supposed to drink?"

"Yeah, that's mostly the point." I answered as I tried to send Mary another text. Sherlock began to tap frantically on his phone.

"Says here that having themes for the night is not unusual."

"Yeah, fine, do whatever you want. Just no strippers!"

"Why in the world would there be strippers, John!?"

For a moment we stared at each other, probably both with equally astonished looks on our faces. In the end, I couldn't hold my face together anymore and I broke into laughter while shaking my head.

"You know what? I really don't know."

I could not for the world stop snickering after this and Sherlock frowned at me again in response.

"What?"

"No, it's just... Me being out on a stag night... With _you_."

We continued to stare at each other, both obviously unsure what to say about that but then Sherlock smiled and soon we were both laughing together, like many times before. Thinking about it afterwards, I should have realised right there and then that this was the most terrible idea we had ever come up with. Me and Sherlock, really _me_ and _Sherlock_ , going out to drink together... What were we thinking?!

"I still want to know the details about the case before Gregson calls." I said as our laughter died out.

"Ah, it actually starts to be the most promising one in weeks!" Sherlock exclaimed and in a second he seemed to have forgotten everything that just had happened and had settled down again by his computer.

"I'll get some coffee." I said. "You want some?"

"Black, two sugars."

"Yeah, I haven't forgotten."

I think I didn't entirely imagine that I saw the corner of his mouth turn up slightly at my response.

I was about to enter the kitchen when I stopped in the doorway and looked back at my friend who was staring intently at the screen in front of him. The fire was back in his eyes. _Sherlock Holmes_ was back and maybe that was for the best. Still, I knew that I would not forget again that in the end, behind the up turned collar, the piercing grey eyes and the mind palace, the best man I had ever known was only human, whether he wanted to or not. In the end, I think we all have a past that we need to process if we don't want it to define us.

"Sherlock... What you said about the sunrise..."

"Mm."

"Did you ever admire it?"

Sherlock Holmes sat completely motionless for a moment. He then turned around to face the brilliant light rays again, shining at him through the window. His face seemed to relax against its warmth and he closed his eyes. The answer to my question was almost a whisper.

"Every day..."

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S FINAL NOTE**

Okay, so this fic is basically me doing up with what I thought was a big problem about _The Empty Hearse_. _The Reichenbach Fall_ was a horrible and emotional trauma for John but as it seemed on screen also for Sherlock, not to forget us viewers. Of course some of it wasn't real (like Sherlock not actually jumping to his death) but in _The Empty Hearse_ they kind of implied that _everything_ was an act. For me, they joked too much about the whole thing in that episode, almost making fun of John's pain and I wasn't really on to that. Sherlock also really acted like a complete dickhead towards John, even more than before and especially on the train. Because I believe that Sherlock's emotional reactions on the roof were mostly real, that neglected much of the traumatic experience that _The Reichenbach Fall_ was, especially for me as a viewer. What I then figured is that it must have been some reason for it, a.k.a that he hated how he reacted to the whole thing, that he became "human". I'll be happy to discuss this further if someone is interested in this discussion. What do you believe?

Puh! So how did this turn out? My goal is always to write as close to canon as possible so your feedback is invaluable! I also wanted this chapter to _not_ be so strait forward and instead get the readers to think and discuss with themselves what it all mean, more like a philosophical discussion. Once again I want to thank everyone who has followed this story and I hope that you take a look at my other stories, spread the word about this one and will follow my upcoming works. THANK YOU!

Over and out!

/ BMRH


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